One black eye and two tongues on his cock

Image by the amazing Stuart F Taylor

One of my favourite pictures of myself is a fuzzy, terrible snapshot of half of my face: one black eye proudly displayed and my lips curled upwards in a filthy grin. It’s an old photo, taken on a phone that had something which could barely be described as a camera, but the picture reminds me of a very happy time.

We met this girl, you see. This one. Fun and filthy and beautiful. We fucked each other once, then again, then a couple more times because… well… why not?

We enjoyed each other.

There were moments when we were fucking when my heart would hammer: the guy I was with at the time had a wandering eye, and I spent so much of our relationship consumed by jealousy. But while we were with this woman, I was only a little worried that he’d fall in love with her, far more concerned that my insecurity would stop me from loving her fully myself.

I have no idea why it worked so well, when so many other things never quite got there. Maybe it was that we were friends first, and we trusted her. Perhaps it was her delight in being deliciously, happily single. Perhaps it was just that I really fucking fancied her – in a way I’d not experienced with any other women before that point.

The photo reminds me of my favourite ever night that we spent together: we’d got dressed in our best for a party – think cocktails and good shoes and usually-scruffy men making unexpected effort in clean white shirts. And dancing, of course. Not moshing or skanking like I’d usually go for, but dancing with a live band where haphazard, clumsy fuckers try to pull you into fancy twirls. And slow songs where you press against each other, enjoying the sensation of someone else’s curves crushed up close against your own.

At the end of the night, we went back to mine, and the three of us tumbled onto the futon. My studio flat was tiny and my bed was just a futon on the floor sandwiched between a wobbly bookcase and a low, solid wood coffee table.

We started with one of those three-way kisses: where you’re in and out of each other, turning your head back and forth, greedily pulling at one person before swiftly switching round to make sure the other gets their turn. Occasionally meeting in the middle in a mess of tongues and spit.

She pushed him down onto his back, and grinned at me. Reached out a hand to loosen his tie, as I got what she meant and set to work on his belt.

He was happy to lie there and let us get to work.

Of course.

I want to tell you here, in detail, what happened once we’d stripped him. But this thing happened a long, long time ago. Fourteen or fifteen years, maybe? I genuinely can’t remember who put what where and when, whose lips first touched his nipples or whose hands reached when for what.

But I do remember vividly two things:

The first is the moment when she told me ‘we’ should suck his cock: the way that ‘we’ made me feel. And the playful glee in her face when I shuffled down the bed, and met her eyes as our tongues touched on his cock. That moment stays where all the others go, and it’s usually the detail around which I’d base a story.

But for that picture. Me, grinning filthily, and proudly displaying the black eye I’d got when – somewhere mid-fuck at the end of our threesome – I lifted my head to meet hers for a greedy kiss… and smacked it full-force on the coffee table.

I am short on stories at the moment, so I thought I’d dredge up this one. It isn’t filthy and it doesn’t have a moral, it just makes me smile. I looked out that photo this week, to see if I could remember any more about this night, but the only details I have are those: the black eye, my fuck-happy grin, and the vision of us grinning as our tongues met on his cock.

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